‘Come on, wench! I need to get these off the fire,’ Nob called.
A merry fellow with gleaming blue eyes and a ginger beard, he was dressed carelessly, in a short tunic that was marked by a thousand fatty explosions, while his arms were protected by his torn and frayed shirt. Through the rope that encircled his belly had been thrust a cloth to serve as an apron, ‘and to protect me cods!’ as he often happily declared.
Cissy called, ‘All right, all right, you old fool. I won’t be long,’ and returned to chatting with Sara.
Nob could see her talking, but he let her continue. Cissy attracted women who needed advice like a candle-flame attracted moths. Yesterday it had been Emma, and now apparently Sara wanted help.
Sara was always seeking the friendship of one man or another now she was widowed; and Nob had no doubt that his wife was offering some friendly and probably long overdue advice on how to disentangle herself from her latest admirers. There was always more than one, which was no surprise when a man considered her long, lithe body, slim haunches, tiny waist and swelling breasts. And all that, as Nob told himself, under a fair halo of strawberry-golden hair, slanted, humorous green eyes and those succulent lips, bright and red and soft as rose petals. Bloody good-looking, she was.
Cissy was going to be with her for a while, from the look of things, so Nob pulled the pies from the heat himself and set them on a large wooden tray to cool, taking them to the trestle.
‘Now then, lass,’ he called out. ‘Is it more talk about men or not?’
‘Shut up, Nob. If you want to be useful, fetch us a jug of water,’ Cissy snapped curtly.
Nothing loath, for at the side of the water barrel was a second one filled with ale, Nob hitched up his rope, sniffed, and walked out.
‘Nob!’
He poked his head around the doorway. ‘Yes, my little turtle dove?’
‘Enough of your smatter. And don’t empty the ale barrel while you’re there.’
Grunting, he tugged at his rope belt again. Since Cissy had already turned her back to him, the effect was somewhat lost, but he cocked an eye at Sara. ‘Eh, Sara? How comes you always have all these fellows drooling over you, eh? Tell ’em you’re mine, girl, and they’ll leave you alone. None of ’em would mix wi’ me, lass.’
Sara gave him a weak smile, and he winked and grinned before walking out to his barrel, reflecting that she appeared more upset than she usually did when she was suffering from man trouble.
Sitting with his large pottery drinking horn in his hand, he wiped the sweat from his brow and upper lip, then the back of his hair, using his cloth. Draping it over his shoulders, he sat back.
It was a long day’s work, cooking. Up before dawn to light the first of the fires, then mix the flour and water to make the paste, and leaving it to rest a while before rolling out the little pastry coffins and filling them. Some liked plain meats – beef, pork, chicken, lark or thrush; others liked thick gravies or jellies. He always had half a calf’s head and offal boiling in one pot ready to make gravy, while the animal’s hooves were simmering in another for the jelly. No matter, Nob liked his work, and with the profit of the coining last week, he and Cissy had made enough money to be able to survive through to the big coining in the late autumn. That would be the last for a while, and the money he saved from now, together with the profit from the next, would have to keep them going through the winter.
Not, he thought with a contented belch, that he had much to worry about. The wood for the winter was stored. Their last pair of pigs were ready to be slaughtered and salted down, and the chickens which had stopped producing enough eggs had already been marked off in his mind. There was enough for them this winter. Thank God, he thought, virtuously crossing himself and glancing upwards, the harvest was better this year. The last few summers had not been good. No one had starved, but the cost of food was still too high.
Finishing his ale, he filled a cup with water and, as an afterthought, picked up a second cup and pitcher of cheap wine. Poor Sara looked as though she could do with a drink.
But Sara was already gone when he re-entered his hall.
‘Trouble again, with that girl?’ he asked.
‘When isn’t she in trouble?’ Cissy said gloomily.
Nob nodded, waiting.
There were no customers in the shop to listen at the moment, so Cissy continued, ‘She thinks she’s got a babby on the way.’
‘How many will that be?’
‘You know. There’s Rannulf, Kate, Will, and now she reckons she’s going to have another. Missed her time this month and last. She’s beside herself, poor maid, because her man’s been dead two years and more, so people will know, and then what will happen?’
‘Who’s the father?’
‘Wouldn’t say. Someone who isn’t married, she said, but that’s no matter, is it? She thought he was going to offer to marry her, she said, but after he bedded her one last time, he turfed her out and laughed at the idea. His promise was nothing and there were no witnesses. Three kids already, and now this one,’ Cissy sighed. ‘She’s one of those who takes a compliment like it’s got to be paid for. Tell her that her hair looks nice, and she’ll ask whether you want her bed or your own.’
‘Never asked me,’ Nob said innocently.
‘Nob, the day you notice someone’s hair is the day I’ll become a nun,’ she said scathingly as she walked to wipe crumbs from the table in front of her.
Nob returned to his oven, taking a shovel and throwing fresh charcoal inside. He reached in with a long
